


you and me and the devil makes three

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Alternate Universe - We Know the Devil, Christianity, Emotional Abuse, Incredibly weird cosmology, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Abuse, Self-Harm, Underage Drinking, We Know the Devil fusion, Weird timeline things, Xeno, body horror kinda, or xeno adjacent anyway, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: The door creaks when they open it. In fact, the whole place creaks every time either of them moves. Galahad flicks on the lights; the bulb is about fifty years old, from the look of it, and it spurts and flickers like it’s on its last legs. The cabin is overgrown with flowers; there are beds with pink and orange lilies sprouting from the mattresses, bright purple morning glories creeping across the wall. It’s beautiful, except for the creaking and the flickering and the fact that they’re going to have to spend the night here and probably the devil will show up because when has anything ever gone well at this camp and oh, right, they’ve been set up to fail when he does.Mordred drops his backpack and flops down on the floor, doesn’t put his weight on any of the furniture, and touches the petals of a pink lily almost absentmindedly. “It’s a bit of a fixer upper,” he says, then adds, “Could be a nursery,” purely to see if it’ll make Galahad laugh.Or:Two boys at Christian summer camp, in an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, here to face the devil.Humans are more likely to kill you than the devil is, statistically. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	you and me and the devil makes three

The cabin is dilapidated. Decrepit. A hundred other words starting with the letter D which Mordred does not happen to be able to remember right now, because it was a several-hour hike uphill through the forest to get here and he’s exhausted. At least the smell of incense isn’t so strong this far out from the parts of camp people actually spend time in when they aren’t meeting the devil; not even Group Northeast would be stupid enough to pitch a bonfire out here. On the other hand, not being surrounded by a cloud of incense and DEET means the bugs are thicker than ever, and Mordred’s arms itch just thinking about it.

“Looks like the lock is broken,” Galahad says, because he’s one of the good kids, good enough to pay attention to things like broken locks and good enough to care about them rather than just being glad there isn’t one more thing between him and a place to sit down. Way too good to be stuck in this cabin with Mordred. Too good to be in this camp at all, really.

“Probably Group South,” Mordred says, because he’s not good enough to overcome how tired he is and how much he does not want to be here. “Or East. Northwest? Whoever the fuck was here last. Does the place have water we can trust, do you think?”

“It has electricity,” Galahad says, a little dubiously. It probably shouldn’t; it looks like the kind of place where a single live wire might burn the whole thing down. “The broken lock isn’t a great sign.”

“It’ll be fine, we can barricade the door.” He knows full well that’s not what Galahad meant but he really does not have enough care in him for this. “And it didn’t let the devil in last time, the last group who came up here was fine.”

“They had three people.”

Every group is supposed to have three people — _there is nothing to fear when there is two against the devil_ — but Percival was sent home with a broken leg three days into camp, leaving Mordred and Galahad to be a group on their own. Privately, Mordred’s pretty sure that’s why they’re up here: the bonfire captain hates paperwork, hates anyone who makes his job harder, hates Mordred specifically, and is exactly the right kind of petty to make them face the devil alone for being tangentially connected to something that makes his life more annoying.

This is not a kind, fair, or charitable thought. Galahad wouldn’t have it, or if he did, would tell himself firmly to stop, and then would _actually_ stop. Mordred indulges in it anyway, because he is not a kind, fair, or charitable person. It goes along with the being low on care.

“And we’ve got two, and a bunch of furniture to barricade the door with, and you’re good at crystal diode stuff, we can fix it probably. And also I don’t think the devil needs doors. It’ll be fine,” even though literally nothing about this camp has been fine and nothing will be fine in the foreseeable future, even though they’ve been set up to fail because the bonfire captain is a petty asshole. Either the devil won’t come, or Galahad will drive the devil out of Mordred, or Galahad will call for help and they’ll send up the real scouts and Galahad of all people will have managed to flunk out of the camp for the worst kids, which will probably ruin his life, but whichever way it goes panicking now won’t help. “Let’s go in.”

The door creaks when they open it. In fact, the whole place creaks every time either of them moves. Galahad flicks on the lights; the bulb is about fifty years old, from the look of it, and it spurts and flickers like it’s on its last legs.

The cabin is overgrown with flowers; there are beds with pink and orange lilies sprouting from the mattresses, bright purple morning glories creeping across the wall, white and yellow shasta daisies that have placed themselves firmly between the floorboards. The contrast against camp, where the bunks are well-maintained but painted sterile grey and the dandelions get cut with the rest of the grass, is sharp. It’s beautiful, except for the creaking and the flickering and the fact that they’re going to have to spend the night here and probably the devil will show up because when has anything ever gone well at this camp and oh, right, they’ve been set up to fail when he does.

Mordred drops his backpack and flops down on the floor, doesn’t put his weight on any of the furniture, and touches the petals of a pink lily almost absentmindedly. Stargazer lily, he thinks, although he’s never been great at plants; anything green was Gawain’s thing. “It’s a bit of a fixer upper,” he says, then adds, “Could be a nursery,” purely to see if it’ll make Galahad laugh.

It does. That’s a bright spot, at least. Galahad is still standing up, looking a little longingly at the morning glories but not touching them, which is weird but it’s at least not that vaguely-frightening faraway look he gets sometimes that makes Mordred want to wave a hand in front of his face to make sure he’s not lost to the world entirely. Somehow despite the heat and the hike Galahad hasn’t opened even one of the buttons of his shirt, or pushed his sleeves up or put his backpack down.

There are two long scars running up Mordred’s forearms and they itch. There are a dozen scars criss-crossing under them, years old and long faded, and a few scabs on top for good measure, and they itch too.

  
  


The sun goes down; they can’t see the sky from inside the cabin and the trees are thick enough that it was pretty dim anyway, but you can feel it when evening in the woods turns to night in the woods, or at least they can in these woods. The sirens up here look like they’ll barely work and, while neither Mordred nor Galahad cares to climb the poles to fix them alone and with only as much wire and galena as they carried up in their respective backpacks, neither Mordred nor Galahad really trusts them either, so last light means it’s time to make the rounds.

( **I.** “I’ll go,” Galahad says, “you keep watch here.” It’s well-meant, it’s dangerous outside, but mostly it makes Mordred feel useless, like obviously if the devil came Mordred wouldn’t be able — wouldn’t be _good_ enough — to do anything about it, which honestly is probably true but that hardly helps. 

“Sounds good,” he says, even though it doesn’t. “I’m always happy to stay sitting down while you hike through the bugs.” His arms itch and he wants so badly to pick at his scabs; he can feel his pulse in his wrists.

Lights flash and pulse in the corners of Galahad’s vision, will o’ the wisps dancing in the woods to lead him off the path. He keeps his radio tuned and walks quickly and ignores the lights and the trees and the sky and the air and comes back to Mordred lying on his back on the floor and scratching at his arms.)

( **II.** “I’ll go,” Mordred says, “you’ve done most of the work so far,” which isn’t really true but Galahad doesn’t know how to object without looking like he’s fishing for compliments so Mordred goes alone and Galahad stays. Lights dance like fireflies around the cabin, gold and crimson and purple; Galahad watches them, lets his eyes unfocus and just looks at the colors and the light and the morning glories. Can’t quite bring himself to reach out and touch.

Mordred fiddles with his radio instead of scratching, skips from prayers to hymnals to sermons to Panic! at the Disco, walks as fast as he can and breaks into a run when he approaches the cabin again and returns to Galahad sitting on the floor next to the bed with that strange lost faraway look.)

( **III.** “Let’s both go,” Galahad says. “Nobody is going to take our stuff and it’s safer with two.” 

(( **III.a.** “Buddy system,” Mordred agrees, smiling like it’s a joke even though it isn’t one really — _there is nothing to fear when there is two against the devil_ — and they both go.

The night is black and warm and the air prickles with what they both really hope is just a storm on the way and not something more dangerous; the trees are dense enough that you can’t really get a look at the stars, but Mordred stops them so they can crane their necks to try anyway while they’re already outside.

Light pulses in the corner of Galahad’s eyes, and Mordred takes his hand and pulls him along the path, pointing out different types of trees, a distraction; Mordred reaches over to scratch at where he cut himself two weeks ago in a fit of desperation with a dinner knife stolen from the dining hall, and Galahad takes his hand so he can’t and then holds onto it while Mordred squeezes hard enough that the blood leaves his knuckles, hard enough that it has to hurt Mordred as well as Galahad.))

(( **III.b.** “Or we could just not,” Mordred says. “Who’d know? Besides, I think there’s gonna be a storm and it’s not like the counselors are gonna come up here and check in on us when there’s lightning. Or at any other time.”

“The sirens up here really don’t look reliable,” Galahad says, uncertain.

“What, like we’re going to be so much better if the devil shows up? Like one of us is going to chase him away alone in the middle of the forest?” Galahad doesn’t point out that this is a fully general argument against being in this cabin in the first place, because Mordred would probably agree. “Let’s stay _put,_ we have a home base and we should stay in it.”

Galahad isn’t sure that’s a good idea but he agrees anyway, helps barricade the door and then sits down on the floor and lets Mordred braid his hair. He let the counselors cut it short on the first day of camp and they’ve trimmed it regularly since but there’s a few inches left and that’s enough for Mordred to do a waterfall braid over his temples, or at least to try. He misses the weight of a real braid against his back but Mordred’s fingers feel lovely on Galahad’s scalp. Spots of gold and amber and emerald glow under his eyelids when he blinks.

Mordred finishes the braid; Galahad hears the scratch of fingernails on skin.))

  
  


The hours stretch. Once the sun’s down there isn’t even anything to mark them by, Mordred’s phone was dead long before they got here and neither of them has a watch, and there’s really only so long you can go braiding each other’s hair and not thinking about what they’re going to have to do before the night is up.

“Did you bring cards?” Mordred says. “Because I am an idiot who did not bring cards.”

“I also did not bring cards. I brought a book? I didn’t really look at it, it’s Elana’s, I’ve already read everything I brought to camp with me.”

The book turns out to be My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult, and while staring at the ceiling and admiring the flowers is boring, reading a book club discussion book about a girl who exists to be her leukemic sister’s organ donor out loud to each other sounds exponentially worse.

“We could play truth or dare, I guess,” Mordred says.

“I do not trust you with truth or dare,” which is completely fair because Mordred does not use truth or dare responsibly and after the incident three weeks ago with Group East Galahad knows it, but Mordred’s a little offended nonetheless.

“That’s... valid,” he says instead of that. “I still don’t have cards, though. — oh, but you know what I _do_ have.”

What Mordred has is a spare plastic water bottle, filled with a clear liquid that could be water except for how it smells like cotton candy dissolved into mouthwash.

“That’s illegal,” Galahad says. “Neither of us is allowed to be drinking that. How did you even get it. What is wrong with you.”

“I won it in a poker game and I could go on all night, respectively.” Mordred grins at him. “C’mon, try it.”

“We are going to get in so much trouble.” Galahad is staring at it. “We are going to get in so much trouble and it will be the stupidest thing I ever did.”

“Chill,” Mordred says, “Nobody’s going to find _out._ Nobody’s going to hike two hours in the dark to check in on whether we’re drinking. And don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to see what it’s like.”

Galahad makes a face, takes the bottle, takes a sip. “Holy shit, what _is_ that.”

“Cotton candy vodka!” all half-joking cheeriness.

“It tastes like the concept of sugar is trying to kill me.” He wipes at his mouth. “Why did I drink that.”

“Okay but cotton candy already tastes like the concept of sugar is trying to kill you, it’s like eating sweetened fiberglass. This’ll at least get you drunk and not stab the inside of your mouth. Also, because you love me.” He takes a sip of his own — fuck, it really does taste like the concept of sugar is trying to kill you — and hands the bottle back to Galahad, who grimaces but accepts.

“This is so bad. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Galahad’s face is flushed pink and oh, man, of course he’d be drunk already, this is Galahad and he’s probably never had alcohol outside of a church in his life before. “Mordred, why am I doing this.”

“‘Cause,” Mordred says, which is an impressively blatant non-answer but Galahad accepts it anyway.

“It tastes like death. But sugary and nice.” Galahad takes another sip before giving Mordred back the bottle. “I don’t care about anything and it’s so good.”

Mordred laughs and puts it down. “You are so drunk.”

“I’m _not.”_

“You are. It’s hilarious. I’m never believing you about self control ever again.”

“You’re an asshole,” Galahad says. His eyelashes are golden and very long. “Do you know what your problem is?”

Mordred laughs again. “Oh my god. Go ahead, tell me.”

“Your problem,” Galahad says, very seriously, “is that you say you hate liars, but you lie to yourself, and everyone else, all the time. You yell at me for lying but you make lying and hating yourself an Olympic sport. And you think that because you’re an asshole you’re the honest one but you’re not. You’re as much a liar as everybody else.”

“Oh fuck _you,”_ Mordred says because it’s easier than dealing with that statement in any way, and Galahad laughs — open, careless — and reaches for the vodka, laughs again when Mordred stops him.

Galahad is beautiful, Mordred thinks, even in the harsh light, even after saying that. On the bus on the way to camp before the counselors took clippers to it his hair had been long and gold and Mordred had spent an embarrassing number of the hours of the ride staring at him and daydreaming about putting his hands into it and pulling. This short it’s less vibrant but Mordred still wants to pull it and watch Galahad’s face when he does.

Probably this is a thought he shouldn’t be having but it’s whatever, he’s a third of the way to drunk and Galahad’s shoulders are loose and relaxed and Mordred’s not a good person. If they were fundamentally different people, or if there were three people in the cabin and not just two, he might suggest playing Seven Minutes in Heaven for the plausible deniability. Not that it’d be particularly plausible.

As it is they look at each other, drunk and bored and still with nothing to actually do, and Mordred opens his mouth and says, “Wanna make out?” before he can think of all the reasons it’s a bad idea.

( **I.** Galahad blinks. “...my head hurts,” he says in lieu of an answer. “There’s so much light.”

Mordred gets up to turn the lights off — they’re supposed to keep them on but Mordred itches to break rules even, or perhaps especially, when the rules are meant to keep the devil out — and without them the cabin is nearly pitch dark. Only the lights that still shine sapphire blue and ultraviolet in Galahad’s eyes, and those don’t illuminate anything, they’re only in his eyes.

They can’t see each other, only hear and feel and smell and taste; heat pours off Mordred’s skin like water, and mostly he smells like incense and sunscreen and bug spray and bad ideas but the scent of lilies still clings faintly to his fingertips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Galahad whispers, and doesn’t stop, doesn’t take his hands off Mordred, doesn’t let up. Mordred tastes like salt, like sweat, like the sea. Galahad’s mouth still kind of tastes like cotton candy vodka and the combination does strange things to his head. The lights dance.

“We don’t have to be,” Mordred whispers back, and he doesn’t stop either, digs his fingers into Galahad’s shoulder. “We can’t see each other, as long as we don’t say it we don’t have to be doing anything, it doesn’t have to have happened.”

“You hate liars,” is all Galahad can think to say, and Mordred almost laughs, his shoulders shaking with it under Galahad’s mouth.

“Is it that much of a surprise to you that I hate myself? You _just_ said it.”

“I guess it isn’t.”

“So we aren’t doing anything,” and Mordred’s still whispering, even though there’s nobody but them for miles around and no one to hear but each other, or maybe because there’s no one to hear but each other. “And it never happened, and we aren’t having this conversation, and it isn’t a lie because as long as neither of us says anything nothing ever happened. It’s only a lie if one of us says it and not the other.” His fingers are still skating up and down Galahad’s chest, working at the buttons of his shirt, setting every nerve ending in Galahad’s body alight.

“And we aren’t,” Galahad whispers back, “saying things like ‘you make me so happy,’ or ‘I want you,’ or. _Oh,”_ and then he stops because Mordred’s hand is on his mouth, or maybe it isn’t, maybe there’s no hand there at all and they aren’t touching each other; who can say, in the dark? Not Galahad and not Mordred either and if they could they wouldn’t.

“No,” Mordred says, “no, we aren’t, and we aren’t saying things like ‘the only time I feel okay is when I’m with you,’ because saying that would be stupid, and we aren’t saying anything, nothing’s happening, and I hate liars so don’t make me one.”

“Okay,” Galahad whispers, “okay,” and he blinks at the light that fills his eyes and reaches down and between Mordred’s legs to find

(( **I.a.** a gash, a bullet’s exit wound, a mess of blood and pain and openness that shouldn’t be, something desperate and hurting and _wrong_ ))

(( **I.b.** a way to make Mordred tremble under him and make soft gasping sounds and cling and whisper his name like it’s a prayer))

and the heat keeps pouring off him like a fever dream, like water.)

( **II.** Galahad blinks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, “what with the devil and,” and the fact that the whole point of their being in this cabin is that they’ll learn to resist temptation and not let the devil into their hearts. That the whole point of being at this camp is that he’ll learn to be strong enough, disciplined enough, controlled enough, to fight for God, that he won’t let the lights in the woods lead him away from the path, that he’ll learn not to be tempted toward sin by beautiful dark-eyed boys who say ‘do you want to make out with me’ like it’s a question of just wanting to. “Everything.”

Mordred’s face does — something. Galahad isn’t sure what.

“— I’m sorry. My head hurts. There’s so much light.” It’s not even a lie, there’s so much light it feels like his eyes are going to explode with it like every nerve ending in his skin is going to overflow with it like his skull is going to burst with it, but mostly he doesn’t want to see Mordred’s face right now.

Mordred gets up to turn the lights off. “You okay? Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Keep them on,” he says, even though the flickering lightbulb isn’t helping with his head. 

Summer scout camp has three rules: stay on the paths, keep the lights on, and don’t let the devil into your heart. The lights in his eyes want him to disobey the first and he’s unsure of his ability to obey the third but he can obey the second.

His head still hurts; he doesn’t say anything about it. He sits, back ramrod-straight; he wants to close his eyes and lie down or at least lean back against the wall but all he can think of is his mother reminding him to sit up straight, is his pastor saying _the devil makes work for idle hands._ His shirt scratches and the collar feels like it’s choking him; he doesn’t open the buttons. It’s not good to get in the habit of baring skin. The lights dance, amber and turquoise and cobalt blue all mingled; Galahad tries not to watch. The lightbulb flickers. It feels like every nerve in his body has gone bowstring-taut. It _hurts._

The smell of lilies is almost overpowering. “I hate this stupid place,” Mordred says. Galahad doesn’t nod, doesn’t say anything out loud. Isn’t sure whether Mordred means the camp or the cabin. Doesn’t disagree.)

( **III.** Galahad acts before he can think; they’re already so close to one another, and this is a bad idea and the devil is coming and Galahad won’t be strong enough to face it but Mordred’s eyes are dark and his face is lovely and Galahad wants to find out what he’ll taste like, wants to find out if he’ll still like being hurt when it’s Galahad doing it and not himself, _wants._ He’s warm and loose and his mouth still tastes like cotton candy vodka and it’s only the barest movement forward.

The beds have been claimed by the lilies but the floor is comfortable enough.)

  
  


At two in the morning the sirens — the old moss-covered sirens that neither Mordred nor Galahad were willing to trust, the sirens that they were so sure wouldn’t go off if the devil were two feet away from them — crackle to life.

“Fuck,” Mordred whispers.

“We could call the bonfire captain,” Galahad says, hand already on his radio.

“He wouldn’t help,” says Mordred, with a surety he doesn’t feel like he deserves but has nonetheless.

“We could ask God.”

God won’t help either, or at least he won’t help Mordred. God’s help is for good kids, good people, who get to have it easy even though they’re already good and Mordred kind of hates them for it because he’s not a good person and that’s why God won’t help him, because he _hates good people,_ like some kind of mustache-twirling cartoon villain, the kind of evil you’d say was stupid and unrealistic if you read it in a book, the kind of psychological antirealism he’d roll his eyes at people demanding from animators on twitter.

“We could ask God,” he agrees, instead of saying any of that.

They sit across from each other and arrange their radios and hold onto a length of copper wire and hold each other’s free hands. Galahad starts to pray; Mordred prays with him, even though it’s useless, even though it won’t help, even though you don’t need to pray to use the radio and even though God won’t help him anyway.

God isn’t hard to find. He’s always on the same frequency, 109.8 FM. Dialing through the stations they catch bits of songs and sermons, and whispers of the devil in the spaces between channels, 

( **I.** but they land on God eventually.

By the time they find Him, He’s already talking. God doesn’t say “for those just tuning in”; God expects attentiveness.

“— the black bile, as a corrupted form of blood, is the flow of madness, lies, black magic, and death. When Adam and Eve first tasted the apple of the Tree of Knowledge their blood corrupted and turned black, as does the blood of all who embrace the Devil, but the blood of the covenant and the water of the womb run thick and clear in those who embrace the Lord. It is said that in one drop of water can be found all the world's oceans.”

Mordred and Galahad look at one another, uneasy. Galahad is perfectly still; Mordred shifts and looks like he would be fidgeting if both his hands weren’t in use.

“It is certain that the Devil is coming,” God says, his tone unchanged, and Mordred flinches. “It is absolutely certain that the Devil is already here. Parables 1:1 ‘The Devil is only the shadow of man cast from the light of God.’ The meaning of this parable is that there is no devil. The weather is scheduled for tomorrow at 102 degrees with humidity —”)

( **II.** but they land on God eventually.

By the time they find Him, He’s already talking. God doesn’t say “for those just tuning in”; God expects attentiveness.

“— but make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires. Romans 13:14. The impure, the sensual, the material, these things have no place in the kingdom of Heaven. The pride of desiring a beauty that is not God’s —”

Galahad is statue-still. Mordred bites his lip and tries not to be too obvious about watching him.

“It is certain that the Devil is coming,” God says, his tone unchanged, and Galahad glances up. “It is absolutely certain that the Devil is already here. Parables 1:1 ‘The Devil is only the shadow of man cast from the light of God.’ The meaning of this parable is that there is no devil. The weather is scheduled for tomorrow at 102 degrees with humidity —”)

( **III.** and _“Oh, darling,”_ says the devil, her voice like honey and smoke, and they both freeze. _“I miss you. I have always missed you. I can still remember what your faces were like. I have missed them since before you were born. Please come back.”_

Galahad swallows audibly. Mordred can’t move.

_“I know I can’t offer much. The bodies I can give you are weak; the stories I tell are impossible. My world is even more precarious than this one. But please come back.”_

Mordred clings to Galahad’s hand, squeezes tight. The blood leaves his knuckles; it has to hurt. Galahad squeezes back and keeps staring blank faced at the radio.

 _“It hurts to see you like this so much. So unhappy in those bodies of yours, stricken by those stories, forced to live in so much pain. I can't even come save you —”_ )

Mordred drops the wire and the radios fall silent. “Well,” he says, and his voice is very carefully even.

“Well,” Galahad agrees, unsure what else to say.

“It’s me.” Mordred isn’t sure if he’s angry about it or not. “It was always going to be me, you’re too good to even be here.”

( **I.** “It’s not the end of the world,” Galahad tries, because it’s easier than saying that he isn’t that good and never has been. “They’ll send the real Scouts and you’ll be fine. We won’t die or anything.”

 _“Don’t_ lie, and maybe I’d rather we did,” Mordred spits without thinking, and then “— fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t mean that,” even though he kind of does. “But I’m serious. Don’t lie. I _hate_ liars.”)

( **II.** “It might not be,” Galahad says, unsure whether or not it’s optimism.

“Don’t lie.” Mordred tries his best to summon up venom, to spit the words out, but all he sounds is resigned. Galahad wasn’t lying but he doesn’t know how to explain, how to cross the gap between them, so he doesn’t.)

( **III.** “Neither of us should be here,” Galahad says. Maybe it’s the vodka or maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or maybe he’s just done, he doesn’t know. “No one should be here.”

“We’re fucked,” Mordred says, which is not a disagreement. “We are so, completely, utterly, metaphysically, theologically, _fucked.”_ )

Out in the woods the sirens crackle. Light pulses at the edge of Galahad’s vision. Mordred’s arms start to itch.

  
  


( **I.** Mordred scratches at his arms. His radio is across the room from him; Galahad clutches his own, and watches, and waits.

Mordred looks furious; he glares down at the scabs like they’ve personally insulted him, scrapes his fingernails across again, pulls away skin this time. Galahad tries not to stare too obviously at the blood.

“Fuck,” Mordred whispers, as if this isn’t what he’s been trying for every time he’s pressed his fingernails to his skin all week. “I don’t — I wasn’t —”

“You weren’t?” and Galahad has never been great at tone but he wasn’t intending to sound surprised, he wasn’t intending to make Mordred snarl.

“No, I _wasn’t,_ fuck, I wasn’t —” and his face is doing something sad and angry and pained all at once, “I knew it was going to be me but I wasn’t _trying_ — but god, of course it was me, it was always going to end like this — you know they set us up, right?” What, Galahad thinks, and doesn’t get to ask because Mordred is already talking again. “There’s supposed to be three and the bonfire captain sent us up here with two because he hates me and the thing with Percival was mildly inconvenient for him and he doesn’t give a shit if it ruins your life, and he fucking smiles and says ‘it’s not fair but the world isn’t fair’ as if he isn’t doing this on _purpose,_ and everyone _always_ says ‘that’s the world, that’s life, that’s reality’ and they especially say it when it’s a reality that’s their fucking fault.”

Mordred pauses, breathes. His eyes are closed. “They sent you up to fight the devil alone, on purpose, knowing that it almost always takes two, and _fuck,_ if anyone can do it you can, but they _deliberately set you up to fail._ And I want you to know that if you do fail it doesn’t matter what anyone else says, it’s not your fault, and it’s not just how the world is, it’s theirs. The people at this camp did this on purpose to hurt you for no reason and they’re going to say it was your fault and get away with it and it makes me want to _scream and cry and break things_ because _you won’t.”_

“Mordred,” and Galahad doesn’t know what he was going to follow that up with but it doesn’t really matter.

Mordred is swaying on his feet. “I didn’t get it at first. Why you’re even here. You’re so good and you’re still here in the camp for the worst kids and stuck in this cabin with me. But I think I get it now, it’s because it doesn’t actually _matter_ how good or how bad you are, they’ll hurt you any way they can and say you deserved it because that’s what they fucking do. Did you know my dad tried to kill me when I was a baby? He took me to the beach, one of the cold rocky ones, and tried to drown me. My mom never forgave him but she never shut up about it either and it might be the best thing she ever did for me, raising me knowing adults will hurt you just because they can. I think she wanted me to want to hurt him back. I don’t think she realized I’d want to hurt _all_ of them back.

“You’re really easy to get mad for, you know that? You’re good enough that you shouldn’t be here but you’re not so good that it’s _actually_ easy for you. I want to hurt everyone who ever hurt you. I want to hurt everyone who ever hurt either of us. I want to stain you until you can’t keep pretending you’re happy getting hurt anymore. I want to burn down this camp and I want to burn down the whole world and I want to _break_ every single person who has ever said ‘it’s just how the world is’ to someone whose problems they deliberately made and I want to kill God because who does that more than God does, it’s only _just how the world is_ if nobody _made the world on purpose_. I want to break whoever told you it was wrong to want to kiss boys and I want to break everyone who told me it was prideful to want to be treated like a fucking _person_ and I want to _break heaven and smash the churches._ That’s what I want.”

By the end Mordred’s snarling again, and his face twists when he says “And I don’t _care_ that it’s wrong to want it, it’s wrong to want everything I’ve ever wanted and it always has been and _I am fucking done,”_ and his arms open up with long slashing cuts that spill seafoam and something dark and twisting that doesn’t move like blood or any liquid Galahad has ever seen, and Galahad holds tight to his radio and Mordred smiles that wry twisted smile.

_There is nothing to fear when there is two against the devil,_

(( **I.A.** and Galahad is only one, and it would be so easy to let the words sink in, so easy to be as angry on his own behalf as the Devil claims to be on his, but Galahad has been practicing all his life for this and has everything to prove and he chooses to stay clean, stay unstained, stay someone who can ever go home and look any of his family in the eye again, someone who can bring Mordred home. And the devil only gets one moment, for revenge, for love, for _please let me in._

Galahad brings the light, and his radio pulses and crackles and sparks and the devil is destroyed.))

(( **I.B.** but Galahad is only one and he is terrified, and it would be so easy to let the words sink in, so easy to be angry on his own behalf, and Galahad has been practicing his whole life for this and has everything to prove but he’s so hungry.

When he was twelve he spent two weeks trying to eat nothing but the Eucharist, and by the end of it he could think of nothing but the hunger. There is nothing to fear when there is two against the devil but Galahad is only one and there should have been two, they should never have been sent here alone, there should have been two.

Galahad brings the light, or he tries to, and he wields his radio with steady hands and shoves the hunger from his mind in favor of the fear, and the fury and seafoam spill from the gashes in Mordred’s skin and Galahad slips and

((( **I.B.1.** fails, fails one last unfixable time, and the last thing he thinks is _I’m never going to be able to go home again_

and the world goes black.)))

((( **I.B.2.** calls for help, dials the bonfire captain and screams his lungs out while Mordred does his level best to break — he hopes the radio, worries it’s Galahad he’s trying to break, that doesn’t help the screaming — and holds the Devil off until help arrives and he has to face the fact that he _failed_.)))

((( **I.B.3.** Mordred catches him.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Mordred says, and Mordred is still bleeding seafoam and rage but he’s so gentle with Galahad. “I’m not angry at you, I’m angry for you — I want to stain you and I want to make you say out loud that you don’t want to be hurt anymore but I don’t want to fight you, you don’t have to fight me, I won’t fight you.”

“I can’t,” Galahad says, and he’s still clinging to his radio, he thinks he might be crying but he isn’t sure. Mordred is definitely crying, sea-green tears that don’t flow like water flows. “I can’t, you know I can’t,” and Mordred makes a desperate half-snarled sound and

(((( **I.B.3.a.** knocks the radio out of his hand and shoves Galahad to the floor, presses into his mouth, his arms are still bleeding fury and it stains Galahad’s shirt and it feels like it’s going to stain his skin, and Galahad wants to push him away wants to fight him wants to never stop but he tries and Mordred snarls again.

“I want to stain you, I want to ruin you, I want to _never let you say you don’t mind it ever again,_ ” and that could be kind or could be terrifying and Galahad doesn’t know which he prefers but he reaches out for the radio))))

(((( **I.B.3.b.** kisses him, bizarrely gentle, makes a fist in Galahad’s hair and doesn’t pull, and says “I _don’t want to hurt you,”_ and Galahad is definitely crying now but he holds his radio anyway))))

and fights.

The devil only gets one moment, for revenge, for love, for _please let me in._

Galahad brings the light, and his radio crackles and pulses and sparks and the devil is destroyed.)))

  
  


( **II.** The whole woods is lit up, with fireflies and with glowing spots that might be fireflies but aren’t. They bob and sway and dance, amber and purple and magenta and cobalt and crimson and gold and viridian green; there are so many of them that the cabin might be lit by sunlight streaming through stained glass, that it doesn’t even matter when the flickering lightbulb finally fails and goes dark. They’re difficult to take your eyes off of; they’re _beautiful._ Mordred thinks he understands now why Galahad stops and stares at them, why he has to be pulled back to the paths.

It’s. It’s Mordred. It has to be Mordred, Mordred has let the devil into his heart every minute of every day since camp started, Galahad has stayed pure and untouchable and good and Mordred has let himself fester into a seeping open wound of hate, it’s going to be Mordred. Mordred barely knows how the radios work, it _has_ to be Mordred, Mordred knows he can’t fight the devil alone, if Galahad lets the devil in they might _actually die._

There’s so much light. So many colors. Galahad reaches out and touches, very gently, the petals of a morning glory.

“I,” Galahad says, and then stops. “This feels strange. I think I like it, though.” He’s smiling, soft and loose and open.

“You’re so colorful,” Mordred says before he can wonder if it’s a bad idea. This isn’t how you’re supposed to fight the devil. But then Mordred always knew he wasn’t going to be able to fight.

“Thanks, I think.” Galahad’s face is serene, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve told you, I was supposed to save the world? My mom got a message from God when she was pregnant and they thought I was going to grow up and save the world. And here I am.”

“Galahad,” and Mordred doesn’t know what he was going to follow it up with but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

“I was supposed to grow up and save the world,” Galahad repeats. “And I tried, you know? The world was so good. I wanted to save it. I wanted so bad to be good enough to save it. I thought. They thought. _We_ thought if I just, tried hard enough, and lived simply enough and had enough discipline, I’d be strong enough to save it. That I wouldn’t be so prideful, and I’d be content with God’s beauty and not lust after man’s. That I’d learn not to be distracted by colors and music and the sky and I could fight for God.

“And it didn’t work.” Galahad’s not smiling anymore. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. I went two weeks eating nothing but the Eucharist and it wasn’t enough, all I could think about was the hunger. I didn’t wear anything that didn’t scratch and all it did was make me want so badly to bury myself in softness and never come out. And camp was supposed to fix me and now I just want _everything.”_

The light pulses; the colors shift over his face. His uniform shirt is white and his skin is pale and in the multicolored light he looks like he’s standing under a stained glass window. His eyes are wide open and he doesn’t look distant, doesn’t look lost; he looks like he’s never been more _here._ “I want to see the aurora borealis and I want to hear all the music that’s ever been written and I want to know what it feels like to skydive. I want to walk through a forest following every light I see. I want to touch everything. I want to drink every poem in the world. I want to kiss you, I’ve wanted to kiss you all summer, and I want to find out what it is you like about pain and then I want to feel every kind of pain there is and every kind of pleasure too.

“The world is so good and I _don’t want to save it._ The world is so good and I want to _have_ it. I want to _never wear white again_ — never pray when I want to be singing again — never stop myself from touching anything ever again — never be hungry ever again — never hold myself back from _anything ever again_ —”

And he explodes into hunger and multicolored light, every nerve ending in his skin shining a different color, like the aurora borealis is breaking through him, like he’s a prism and white light refracts into rainbows when it touches him and the multicolored light of the cabin refracts into something brighter still, and

(( **II.A.** Mordred runs for his radio, and Galahad laughs, not cruelly. _There is nothing to fear when there is two against the devil,_

((( **II.A.1** and Mordred is only one and he is terrified.

But the devil only gets one moment — for revenge, for love, for _please let me out_ — and Mordred brings the sea and his radio swirls and foams and beats against the shore, and maybe he was stronger than he knew because his radio screams and crashes against Galahad and the devil is destroyed.)))

((( **II.A.2.** but Mordred is only one and he is terrified.

He brings the sea, or he tries to, and his radio swirls and foams and beats against the shore, and Galahad runs a hand along the cabin walls as if he’s never touched rough wood before and auroras shine through every nerve ending and Mordred — can’t move fast enough, can’t fight well enough, _isn’t a good enough person,_ and he takes his radio and tries with shaky hands to dial in to 109.8 FM, to ask God for help that won’t come, and

And he looks up at Galahad and the colors shift and swirl and Galahad is so _hungry_ and wants to devour him and Mordred freezes with his hand on the copper, _mine eyes have seen the glory_ playing through the speakers, and that’s the last thing he hears before he blacks out.)))

(( **II.B.** Mordred kisses him.

It’s stupid and impulsive and wrong and the wrong move but auroras shine through every nerve ending and it’s so good, it’s the best thing Mordred has ever felt, it feels like the light is cutting him open and he’s never wanted anything to cut him open so much, and Galahad’s hair is long again and it shines in golden rainbows like fiber optic LED lights and Mordred shouldn’t want the devil but he’s too bad of a person not to and too sick of apologizing for it to stop himself so he grabs it and pulls and Galahad makes a broken desperate hungry wanting noise and presses into him and. And.

Mordred is a festering wound of rage and hate and Galahad is made out of light and hunger and the light is beautiful on the sea and they crash into each other, light cutting through the hatred and hunger devouring the rage and both of them tearing every dark thing out of Mordred and replacing it with color and wanting and they don’t stop even when Mordred is

((( **II.B.1** on the floor bleeding, and he can’t tell if his blood is usually this brilliant crimson or if it’s just the light or if it’s Galahad’s colors bleeding into him as he bleeds onto the daisies,)))

((( **II.B.2** on the floor bleeding and instead of or maybe in addition to blood he bleeds fury and sea foam, he’s a festering open wound and what wounds do is they _bleed,_ and Mordred clings to Galahad and bleeds and screams rage into his mouth and lets Galahad devour the sounds and lets the sea foam fall on the floor, the salt will kill the flowers but he doesn’t know if he cares,)))

and they don’t stop until the blood loss is too much and Mordred’s eyes roll back into his head and all he can think is _no, I want to keep seeing_ — and then he blacks out.))

  
  


( **III.** The sirens blare. God is _furious._

“That’s. Not great.” Galahad sounds like he’s about to faint.

“It’ll be fine,” Mordred says, and he’s lying again but mostly to himself, and not very convincingly. “The scouts are coming and it’ll be one hit and it’ll all be fine and we’ll be forgiven. Mostly. Probably.” There’s a pause. His arms itch and he doesn’t scratch them. “Okay, I won’t, but I’ll take the fall and you will.”

“I won’t either.”

“...yeah. Fair.” Mordred stares outward. “So where’s the devil?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s everywhere. I think maybe it’s us.”

The sirens are still screaming, God and prayer and righteousness blaring through them into the night.

“Well. Fuck. Can’t say I don’t deserve it, I guess.”

“I know.” Galahad doesn’t say anything about deserving, which is probably for the best, because if Galahad said he deserved any of this Mordred would hit him. “It’ll be okay, I think.”

“Nothing to fear when there’s two against the devil,” and Mordred doesn’t know what’s funny about it and didn’t really mean it as a joke but they look at each other and suddenly they’re both laughing.

“I don’t — it isn’t funny, I don’t know why I’m laughing,” Galahad says, and wipes at his eyes. “There’s so much light.”

“Tell me about it?”

Galahad doesn’t, just stares outward at where the lights must be. “I think if I have to go back I’ll die,” he says instead, and isn’t that a mood.

“I think if I have to see my mom again I’ll kill someone,” Mordred says. “Probably me.”

“I don’t want to do that to you.”

“I don’t want to do that to either of us.”

“We could run.”

“Or we could _not.”_

Neither of them speaks for another moment. Still the sirens scream.

“...promise you won’t make me go back?” Galahad says, voice small. His hand reaches for Mordred’s. “If I have — that — and then I have to go back to being human — and go back home —”

“I promise,” Mordred says, and means it. “And I promise if you say you’re fine I will never stop yelling at you until you stop lying.”

“And I promise when you lie I’ll yell at you back.”

“You’d better.”

And Galahad, finally, smiles. “There is nothing to fear when there is two against the Lord,” he says, and he _shines._

The light meets the sea and Mordred’s anger meets Galahad’s wanting, a tidal wave crashing into a shining sky, a mess of blood and nerve endings and air. Mordred is starting to run clear, more seafoam than twisting fury, and Galahad leaves trails of light wherever he touches.

The scouts are still coming. The sirens are still blaring. They’ll come with their radios and transformation sequences and they’ll fight and Mordred will flood the paths with salt water and Galahad will flood the sky with prismatic light. Somehow the radio has turned itself on again, tuned in to the devil’s channel, pleading with her children to come home to her.

Maybe some of the scouts will listen too, or maybe they’ll see Galahad finally happy and Mordred finally at peace and that’ll be the end. Maybe they’ll love the world so much they won’t be able to help but want to save it, like Galahad did, or maybe they’ll care so much they can’t help but want to fix everything, like Mordred. Or maybe they’ll make their own way. The devil doesn’t judge.

The devil only gets one moment, but one moment is all they need.)


End file.
